4 Stories
by 4plato
Summary: With a nod to 3 Stories. A look back at John House and his son, Gregory


STORY ONE

Greg House turned 7 on Monday.  
His mother signed him up for Little League on Tuesday.

On Wednesday he got his uniform and on Thursday he had his first practice, Friday his second and now it was Saturday and he was playing his first game.

It had gone well so far. Being the youngest, the newest and the shortest on the team he'd been sent out to cover left field, and so far nobody had managed to hit a ball anywhere near him—leaving his defensive skills unchallenged.

But now he was going up to bat and his confidence was waning just a bit. Still, the situation was generally favorable. His team was behind by just one run, there weren't any outs and the first batter had managed to get to second base— thus eliminating any danger of a double play. The worse that could happen now was he'd strike out. Not a game ender, they'd still have two outs to go and a man in scoring position.

There was polite applause when his name was announced. He resisted the urge to turn around and look for his mother. Real ball players didn't do that. Maybe if his Dad had been there he would have snuck a glance, but John House was scheduled for duty that day which was probably just as well—less pressure to remember all those things they'd been practicing, like holding the bat off his shoulder, waiting for just the right pitch and putting his weight, all 61 pounds of it, on his back leg.

The first pitch came in high, just like his Dad had said it would. _"Pitcher will need a couple of throws to adjust to your height, sit back and wait."_ And he did.  
The second one was even a bit higher and the umpire called out "Ball Two!"  
The third sailed in with a slight drop putting it within reach. Putting it right in the zone. Greg swung.

The sound of the bat hitting the ball was louder than he'd expected. Greg started running for first, head down, arms swinging— just like his Dad had taught him. He didn't actually see the ball sail over the left field fence, but he knew it had. The crowd was cheering and the third base coach was waving him on and smiling. _Really_, really smiling.

It wasn't until he rounded third that he saw him;  
His Dad. Climbing out of the bleachers—his hands up over his head applauding.

Greg started running faster towards home plate. But his Dad beat him to it. And by the time Greg got there his Dad was on his knees, his arms out stretched, laughing.

The loudspeaker announced. "Home run, Greg House! Marine Mudhens up by one."

STORY TWO

Greg was eleven now. Old enough to understand how important this night was for his dad—for his family.

_A make or break dinner_.  
That was how his Mom described it to him. A night that, if went well, could mean a one way trip back to the States with all the opportunities for advancement that came with being "homeside".  
A night that, if it went badly, could mean permanent assignment to the training team which meant more overseas assignments and an almost certain end to John House's rise in the ranks.  
His dad had been more specific; If the night were to turn out a disaster because of _anything_ he did, any smart remark, or careless misstep, then all hell would break loose on his ass.

The only reason Greg was even going to the dinner at the General's house was the big man himself insisted on it. Both his mom and dad had done their best to get him "uninvited", but the General had countered each of their arguments.

He missed, he said, his own boys who were now in college. He liked having kids around. And besides, he felt you could tell a lot about a man by getting to know his family— And he wanted to get to know John's. The implication being he wanted to know more about John before deciding his fate. This had made for a very tense two weeks in the House-Residence while Mom drilled him on the do's and don'ts of a formal dinner and Dad just keep repeating: _"Fade into the background, It's the safest place to be." _

And now here he was. Sitting between his parents, a linen napkin on his lap and a salad fork in his hand.

He thought he'd done alright in the pre-dinner interrogation. He'd been polite and attentive while answering questions about school, life on the base and his plans for the future.  
_"Be a Marine pilot, like my Dad…" _

He had presented Mrs. General with the bouquet of flowers his Mom bought. That earned him a kiss on the check, which he managed to smile through. Now the hardest part was pretending he liked salad and not knocking over his water glass which he was grabbing every few minutes to help wash down the endive, radishes and whatever else was on his plate.

Dinner was finally over and he had done well. Now the women would clean up and the men would "retire to the den for a brandy and a cigar".

Greg went with the den was smaller than he expected. Dominated by a fireplace and a low table with the most beautiful chess set he'd ever seen. He stretched out one finger and touched the black knight, his first mistake of the night.

"Greg," his Dad had managed to keep his voice surprisingly soft, "Don't touch things that don't belong to you."

"You like chess?" the General asked.

"Yes, sir" Greg answered, looking around the room for a place he could go and fade into the background, like Dad wanted.

"Well, we shall have a game then!" the General said. "Loved teaching my boys to play."

Greg looked over at his Dad who nodded slightly. "And he'd love a game, sir. Wouldn't you, son?"

Three minutes into it Greg started to panic. He was pretty sure he was supposed to lose and that was the problem. Losing to the old man was proving more difficult than winning would have been. He wished his Dad understood chess, at least enough to know how hard he was trying to keep the old bastard at least two steps away from an obvious checkmate.

"Get you a refill on that brandy, sir?" John asked as he reached down and squeezed his son's shoulder. Greg recognized that squeeze. It was the one he got before going on the baseball field, identical to the squeeze Dad gave him just before he climbed up the ladder to the diving board at the base pool. It was the squeeze he always got just before being sent out to win.

It took him six moves to render the old man helpless. Two more and the General's queen was on her face in defeat. It took another two seconds for both John and Greg to learn they'd done the right thing. This was a real General, happy when his troops did well. This was a real Dad, thrilled to see a boy win.

Riding home from the General's, Greg sat in the front seat, between his parents. His Dad's arm around his shoulders while John and Blythe talked about going stateside, talked about making a real home, being a real family.

STORY THREE

His mom thought he was too thin to play football. But his Dad had driven him over to the high school for a talk with the coach.

"The kid brings two main things to the table…" Dad explained. "First his height. I guarantee you he'll be the tallest one on the field! Means he can see over the defensive line, pick out the open man. And second, he's the smartest player you'll ever put on the field. He'll have your playbook read and memorized in one night. And the next day he'll show you how to make it better."

"Look, John" coach was shaking his head slightly. "That all sounds good, but the boy's a stick. One good tackle and I'll be sending in his back up."

John smiled, "My kid can take a hit better than you think, trust me."

That was six months ago. Greg got on the team and he was playing first-string quarterback by the middle of the second week. It wasn't a great team, it wasn't even a good team, but they had a winning record and, for the first time in years, a real shot at winning the annual Marine-Navy game.  
Mainly because of the third thing the kid brought to the table, his knack for understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his teammates and manipulating them into playing better than they ever had before.  
If he had one weakness it was his over reliance on his favorite wide receiver, Jerry Pasco. On the field it was as if they had merged into one. Pasco knowing when he needed to break pattern to give Greg more time to set up, Greg knowing when Pasco was going to speed up or swerve off track. Together they accounted for 85% of completed passes.

And now it was the infamous _night before the big inner service match_ and John was hosting a pre game party.  
Greg had been summoned to the garage, which was decorated in Marine green and stunk of beer and smoke. There must have been at least twenty of John's friends there, most of them from the base. One offered Greg a beer and some advice but John quickly stepped in and made sure he didn't take either of them. Well, not that quickly as he was pretty drunk himself—drunk enough to get up on a chair and guarantee his son would _"Not only emerge victorious but he's going to stomp those Navy sissies into the ground!"_

Greg was well on his way to doing just that. By the third quarter he had his team up by ten, but then Pasco was tackled. Hard. He didn't get up.  
Pasco was taken off the field on a stretcher with a high ankle sprain. Two more plays and they had to punt.  
Navy seemed regenerated by the loss of the Marine star and went down field for a quick seven points. The Marine's switched to a running game, but after only two first downs, one of the backs fumbled and Navy recovered. Two plays later they kicked a field goal and the score was tied.

At the start of the fourth quarter, Greg could hear his dad and his friends shouting. They sounded a little desperate, especially his Dad. He'd managed to get his team down to the eight-yard line with a combination of runs and simple screen passes. Now it was third down and he had one more shot at getting the ball across the goal line. He set up, called the play, got the ball, stepped back and looked for possibilities. His tight end, Ed Brown, was in the end zone, reasonably clear. He turned and pulled his arm back when he heard his father: "Throw it, God damn you! Throw the fucking ball!"

As his arm swung forward the crowd got to its feet, Ed Brown steadied himself for the catch and the defense all started running towards the back right corner of the end zone. Greg started running to the left. His Dad was the first one to start yelling, the first to realize the ball had never left his son's hand. Greg was two yards from the goal line before anyone on the field realized it. He was two yards past the goal line before anyone from Navy was within two yards of him.

After the game, coach announced he was taking the whole team to his house for a victory party. Greg didn't go. Instead he climbed into a big green van with his Dad and six other drunken Marines and they drove to Raleigh to a Hooter's where Greg had his first beer. Or at least what his Dad thought was his first beer.

STORY FOUR

This was so typical, Greg thought. He'd come home from college to be with his parents for their twenty fifth wedding anniversary only to find the house already filled with guests. Aunt Sara, Grandpa Connolley, about ten of his Dad's Marine buddies with assorted wives and girlfriends.

"Oh stop pouting…" his Mom said over breakfast, a plate of scrambled eggs and ham he had taken into the garden to try and eat in peace. "Did you think we weren't going to make a big deal over this? Twenty Five years!"

"I expected to at least have my own bedroom to myself." he answered. "I'm going back right after dinner."

"Fine, but I want you to do one thing first." she was stroking his back. "Your Dad set up a golf game for this afternoon. The men are playing in one foursome and the women in another."

"I am NOT playing golf with…"

Mom interrupted, gently tousling his hair, "Not with Dad, with me! We're one short. Do this for me, Greg, and I promise you'll be in the airport half an hour after we clear the dinner table. I'll drive you myself."

And that was how he found himself on the Ladies Team at the first tee, waiting. They'd decided to let the men go ahead as everyone expected the women to take longer. So Greg stood and watched and listened as his Dad, two other colonels and a Sargent Major argued over clubs and drink choices. Once that was settled they got on to the real business of setting up the bets. There was the basic bet, $500 to whoever won the round, but then there were the supporting bets. $100 to whoever sunk the longest putt. $100 to whoever hit into the fewest sand traps. $150 to whoever downed the most shots of Jack Daniels.

They were finally about to start when his Dad came up with one more bet. "Let's start this thing off right." John slapped the Sargent Major on the back. "$500 to the owner of the ball that gets the furthest down the fairway." It turned out $500 was a bit too rich, but they did settle on $300.  
John, as the man celebrating his anniversary, claimed the right to go last.

The first colonel went into the rough and was immediately disqualified. The second colonel made it about 160 yards, while the Sargent Major went past him by about 8.

That was when John turned and winked at his son. "Come here, boy." He said, smiling like he owned the world. "You tee off for me." Before anyone could protest, John reminded them the bet was _"the owner of the ball"_ so as long as Greg used one of John's— the rules were unbroken.

Greg took one practice swing. "I get half the bet or the ball goes into the parking lot."

...

This was the story he was telling Stacy as they stepped onto the fourth green. The story he was telling when he stumbled.

"You OK?" she asked

"Yeah, just a cramp, must be dehydrated or something…" House reached down and began rubbing his right thigh.


End file.
